


slow dive

by Anirrahn



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Anxiety, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Fingering, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Making Out, POV Alternating, PTSD, Post-Pacifist Route, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Switching, in the emotional honesty sense LOL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirrahn/pseuds/Anirrahn
Summary: A series of stories following UF!Toriel and UF!Sans as they work their way up to a relationship.[1-3]slow dive: Toriel asks Sans a question.[4-6]fast lane: Sans goes to work.





	1. slow dive [1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toriel asks Sans a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 1 Deltarune Soriel fic completely outlined and ready to be written and 1 Fellbros fic half outlined and ready to be written.
> 
> So _naturally_ I started a completely new longfic that I have only a vague future idea for and decided to post _that_ instead. :)

 

 

 

When Toriel asks, it’s more out of habit than anything else. 

She’s asked him the same question repeatedly ever since the first time they met face-to-face. The barrier fallen, the battle won; it had been picturesque then, almost romantic. She’d been serious about the suggestion. After all the time they’d spent talking to each other, after all the secrets they’d shared between them, after _everything_ , she’d felt like it was the natural next step.

She’d waited, of course, till the others were out of earshot. Till Frisk was ushered to bed. Till the night sky was filled with stars and the two of them had a quiet, serene moment all to themselves. Right then had felt like the most appropriate moment to ask.

Sans, however, had not felt the same.

She’d been disappointed by the rejection, but she’d accepted it.

 _Now_ she only asks because it’s just what she _does_. It’s routine, like a knock-knock joke. Toriel asks, Sans stutters, she smirks and teases, he blushes. Then they continue on as they always have.

Which is why she thinks this must be the lead-up to some sort of joke. “What?”

There’s that telltale blush of his again, rouge high up on Sans’ cheekbones, though this time, it comes paired with an awkward sort of resolve on his face. “I said, ‘Sure.’”

She stares at him as the cold night air bites into the age-rough pads of her hands. They’re standing in their usual alleyway, the neon lights of the stores outside just barely inching into the shadows. She can just make out the newly refurbished bar sign from Grillby’s flashing across the street. It makes her wonder if maybe Sans ate something that disagreed with him while they were there. It would certainly explain the way he’s acting.

Sans shrugs as if it couldn’t matter to him any less, but she can tell. She knows him enough by now to pick out the anxiousness behind the facade. “Why the fuck not, right?”

Toriel looks away, leaning back against the alley wall. She watches the streetlights as they cast the walls in changing hues; reds, yellows and greens. It’s late enough that not many cars are passing by, especially not in the monster-dense area of downtown New New Home. (Asgore named it of course—she could’ve helped, but it was always far more amusing to watch him bumble and fret over decisions that ultimately held no greater importance. … and it was _leagues_ above watching him in horror as he steamrolled through soul-shattering rulings without a moment spared to consider the options.)

She lets the silence linger before she considers Sans at a length, standing stiff with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his oversized black hoodie. She decides to take his words at face value. “What made you change your mind?”

He doesn’t look up at her, frowning at his shoes. The cigarette between his phalangess has long since burned down to a stump, but he holds it still, the embers glowing faintly in the darkness. When he finally speaks, he seems to be struggling with his words. “We’ve been, uh... we’ve known each other for a while now... so...”

 _Ah_.

So _that’s_ what it is. Sans thinks it’s what’s expected at this point in their relationship. Though, what kind of relationship it _is_ , is anyone’s guess.

They aren’t dating.

Mostly they just met up and traded awful jokes at the end of long, exhausting nights. She’d tell him the infuriating list of blunders Asgore had made for that day (that it always fell to _her_ to correct) and he’d tell her stories about his terrible brother. (Her words, not his. _Never_ his.) In all honesty, their relationship hasn’t changed much from when they were just voices on the other side of a door to each other.

Except maybe, that ever since Toriel had first invited him into her bed that initial night on the surface, there had been a layer of suggestion over all that they did.

Not exactly fairy-tale material.

But they were friends. Truly and without a doubt. And, even before she’d left her husband and her life of royal renown behind, she hadn’t had many of those.

Maybe that’s why she hesitates. It certainly isn’t like her. She’s been told on more than one occasion—and by more than one person—that she’s selfish and self-serving. That she only ever cares about things she knows will affect her personally. (Why else would she leave her people in the hands of a tyrant, closing herself off for years?) So, maybe this too is her natural instinct to protect her best interests and has nothing to do with the worry settling in her chest. After all, if she loses Sans she’ll lose the only friend she’s had in ages.

Regardless of the reasons, she can’t help but confirm, “Are you sure?”

Sans looks up at her, sockets narrowed. In the glow of neon lights, the deep crimson of his eyelights flares up an angry, bright, red. He scowls. “The fuck kinda question is that? Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.”

But she _knows_ him—she’s _known_ him for every high and every low in the last dark years of their life in the Underground. And once they’d met face-to-face? She’d held his image to every memory she had of him, filling in the blanks. So she’s familiar with all his tells and she can _see_ what he won’t say. She can see it in the way his eyelights dart back and forth, never connecting too long with hers. Can see it in the way he scuffs his sneakers uselessly against the dirty concrete. Can see it in the sheen of his skull as he starts to sweat.

He’s _not_ sure. No matter what he says.

Toriel knows what the right thing to do is. She should turn him down. She should take the pressure off of him by being the one to say no. The rejection might sting a little at first, but she’s sure he’ll be more relieved than anything else in the long term.

She looks him over; the hunch of his shoulders, the fur of his jacket shrouding his face, the too bright shine of his eyelights. She takes it all in even as he watches at her, smiling that same strained smile that slices like a knife across his face. And. Well.

She’s always been selfish, right?

Toriel leans over him, mouth right at the side of his skull. She whispers, voice low and full of promise. “As you wish.”

She tells herself that jittery feeling in her chest is pleasure with the way he shivers.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was about two seconds away from being called "weeping cocks" [**among a whole host of other colourful titles**](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/182203754114842624/583445542990774300/fc4ab922cca06645ec2fdf978ea8028f.png) thanks to the help ("help") of some _delightful_ friends when I couldn't think up a title myself. Thankfully, in the end I settled on naming it after one of my fave songs for fellsoriel instead. :"D You can listen to it [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLvBtYLaNbI) if you'd like!
> 
> The next chapter is already halfway done so I hope to have it out by next weekend, but also so much of this fic is up in the air that I guess we'll just have to see what happens LOL Regardless, there is not nearly enough fellsoriel out there so here's my small (?? might be a longfic man, idek) contribution to the ship ;w;
> 
> Thank you for reading!! <3


	2. slow dive [2]

They head back to her place. His is closer but he lives with his brother and, beyond how awkward it would be to get hot and heavy with someone in the next room over, neither of them is quite ready to see what will happen when Papyrus and Toriel come face-to-face. She makes no secret of how she feels about him; part of Asgore’s guard, high-ranking and ruthless, casual words of cruelty to his own brother, attacking her child repeatedly and trapping them in a shed, bruised and beaten… with a track record like that, she can’t find it in herself to see anything worth appreciating in him.

It’s the only thing that Sans ever seriously gets upset with her over.

(They compromise by never talking about it.)

Sans is quiet the whole way, save for a nervous chuckle here or there. Toriel tries her best to ignore the discomfort that brings her. She’s firm, reminding herself that she’s not here to coddle him. She’s not his mother. She’s not his wife. More to the point, he’s a _grown man_ capable of making his own choices and his own mistakes.

And who better to make mistakes with than a dear, old friend?

“Here we are.” She leads him in through the front steps and shuts the door behind him as they enter. “Welcome, Sans.”

“‘s a nice place,” he mumbles, making no move to make himself at home. In fact, if anything, he seems to sink further into his hoodie, as if burrowing away from the reality of the situation. Some long-dead sense of concern nags at her for a moment before she forces it from her mind.

“It is, isn’t it?” Toriel had been fixing it up since the moment she acquired it. She could have, of course, had a bigger, fancier house that was already cleaned and furnished—perks of being the (former) Queen—but there was something soothing about being able to craft a place all your own. She’d worked tirelessly at it for the first few months on the Surface, grateful to have something to devote all her overflowing energy into. The result was a place she could walk into at the end of the day and truly feel at ease; a home.

She smoothly removes her coat, hanging it on the rack. She sidles up beside Sans, placing a hand on his shoulder. He tenses at the touch and then slants a look up at her. Toriel smiles at him, slow and meaningful. “The bedroom is even nicer.”

His sockets widen fractionally before he snaps his gaze away, staring down at the floor. Sans laughs a little, hoarse and low, but Toriel can swear that she feels his bones tremble under her fingertips. Her heart pounds with an ache not too far from guilt. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Sans…” Even as she starts to speak, she’s furious with herself. All her life, she’s been ambitious to the point of callousness; _vicious_ in the face of any adversity. It’s what gotten her everything she could have ever dreamed of. So what’s wrong with a little of that _now_? She’s not supposed to react like this to his insecurities. She’s supposed to be focused on _herself_. Why is that suddenly so hard to do when he looks this unsure? “We do not have to do anything if you do not want to.”

Sans, for his part, is startled and somewhat affronted. “H-huh? Why do you keep—what makes you think I don’t want this? I already said that I did!”

Toriel sighs, dropping her hand from his shoulder. “Forgive me but… you seem as if you’re uncomfortable just being here.”

He doesn’t respond to that, only watching her with guarded eyes and clenched teeth.

“I feel as if perhaps I got carried away in my jesting, pressuring you into this.”

It’s like those words drain the fight out of him, his posture slumping and his angry glare falling into something weary. “Nah… it ain’t like that.”

She hesitantly puts her hand back on his shoulder, softer than she usually allows herself to be. “What _is_ it like then?”

This time, Sans doesn’t flinch under her touch. It reassures something tumultuous within her. “I’m, uh. A little out of practice, so… mostly just nerves, I guess.”

“Hmm.” She suspects it’s a little more than that, but she doesn’t push him to offer any further explanation. He seems as if he’s being mostly honest anyhow. Instead, she smirks at him. “Nerves? Funny, I’d have thought being a skeleton ought to have eliminated that problem for you.”

Sans snorts. “No kidding, right?”

When he looks up at her this time, he’s got a wry smile on his face, a lot more at ease than he was moments earlier. It pulls her mouth into a more genuine grin and they both take a moment to simply watch each other. Toriel lets her hand linger on his shoulder, feeling the soft plush of his jacket underneath the pads of her paws. It’s a big, bulky thing. She can’t recall a moment when she’s ever seen him without it on.

“Would you like to do something else instead?”

Too quick, Sans shakes his head. Then, he stops himself and grits his teeth, not looking at her as he reconsiders. “I mean… maybe?”

Toriel nods at him, encouraging. Her fingers stroke the fabric underneath her touch. The whole situation is almost surreal. She can’t pinpoint the last time she’d been intimate with someone, especially quite like this. After Asgore, there had been others of course, monsters eager to please their mighty Queen and perhaps earn her favour in return. But this is different. This is a friend. It tugs on something in her soul seeing him distressed, no matter how hard she tries to shove it aside.

“Could we, uh,” Sans stammers, skull going red with the flush of his magic. The colour is deep on his pale bones, high in contrast, very nearly beautiful. “Fuck, this is embarrassing.”

“Perhaps we ought to sit down?”

He nods, stiff. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’d be good.”

Toriel gestures forward with her arm, leading him towards the room to the side. It’s a small space, cozy and warm. She’s got a couch and coffee table both placed in front of a TV that she’d only really bought for Frisk’s sake. At the side, her favourite armchair rests, a comfort to her soul just in image alone. The carpet is soft under her feet as she pads towards the couch, taking a seat and motioning for Sans to do the same.

The skeleton hesitates. He takes a few steps forward before stopping, awkwardly standing in front of her as if considering something. Then, with jagged movements, he slowly shrugs off his coat, revealing the red turtleneck he wears beneath it in its entirety. She wonders, off-hand, how attuned to temperature skeletons are. With Summer fast approaching, would Sans switch to t-shirts? Had he worn them in Hotland while Underground? And it doesn’t escape her notice how much slighter he looks already, minus the thickness of the coat enveloping him.

“Tori?” She startles. Sans is watching her, half-amused, like he’s been talking to her for a while already and she just hadn’t heard him.

“Apologies.”

“No sweat.” Sans grins, looking a little more like himself. Then he tucks the furred hoodie into itself a little as he rests it on the back of the couch before taking a seat next to her.

It’s silent.

Despite her earlier distraction, she can’t help but lose herself in what Sans looks like again. He’s hunched over, bent forward with his hands clasped together. His legs are spread wide where he sits, feet planted firmly on the floor. There’s still a tenseness to him but it’s far better than the uncertainty that was radiating off of him earlier. Right now, he appears more unguarded than unsure.

Back in the Underground, vulnerability like that was reserved for family, and sometimes not even them. It was something that could have gotten you killed if shown to the wrong person. So to have Sans sit here before her, stiff but lowering his defenses… it warms something cold within her.

It’s a dangerously sentimental feeling and she moves to distance herself from it, getting up off the couch. “I’ll go bring some refreshments—”

“We could make-out.” The blunt force of the statement has Toriel sink back into her seat. Sans isn’t looking at her, shoulders closing in further. “Sorry. Guess that’s a little, uh. Direct. But if I didn’t say it now, I didn’t think I could get it out later, so…”

Her whole head feels like it’s stuffed full of white-noise. “Is… that what you want?”

Sans goes impossibly redder. “I mean, I _did_ enjoy kissing you that other time.”

His naked honesty makes her face feel hot underneath her fur. She resists the urge to raise a hand up to touch it.

They’d only ever kissed once before and it was on that first night on the Surface.

With no place to go, a select few from monsterkind had returned to the Underground to spend the night, but the grand majority chose to stay above and enjoy the comfort of a blanket of stars above them. It was breathtaking. The kind of sight they’d waited lifetimes to see. Still, finding a secluded place all to herself was not too difficult, especially considering who she was. Monsters tended to give her a wide berth. When Toriel took a seat in the open field, dewy grass brushing against her bare feet and ankles, she’d been surprised to hear a familiar voice to her side.

They’d spoken some when they’d initially met face-to-face, but the rush of events that followed hadn’t exactly allowed for much conversation. Now, alone together, it was much more reminiscent of their usual situation. Only now… now she could see the softness in his eyelights that matched the softness of his voice and truly enjoy the way his grin stretched across his face whenever she made a ridiculous joke.

It had stirred some long-forgotten feeling in her and, caught up in it, she’d kissed him. Sans had kissed her back within moments, a warm tingling of magic where their mismatched mouths connected. When they pulled back (seconds later, probably, though it had felt like an eternity at the time) she’d offered, right then, to have him join her in intimacy. Sans had been taken aback, but he recovered quickly. He’d declined, politer than he’d ever been with her before as he did so.

Toriel didn’t take it personally, especially not when his hand drifted over to hers in the grass beside him, settling over it like it belonged there.

So to hear him now, alluding back to that moment with clear appreciation… it makes her heart do funny things inside her chest, second only to the swell of emotion in her soul.

She doesn’t say another word, instead shifting closer to Sans on the couch and reaching out toward him. She easily cups the side of his skull in one large palm, turning him to face her. His bones are warm under her touch, burning near feverish with the flush of his magic. His eyelights flicker up to meet her eyes, flickering nervously in and out. When Toriel leans in to kiss him, she does it slowly, leaving him ample time to back out of it if he so wishes.

Just like the first time, he kisses her back in seconds.

Her mouth aligns with his, softness to the solid press of bone. Magic cushions the greeting, a thrill of electric in the connection. It fills her with heat, all encompassing. It’s good. Sans’ hand wanders up to hold onto her arm where she’s still cupping his face. The pressure of his phalanges on her is comforting, grounding her in the moment. She wonders if he can feel just how warm to the touch she herself is becoming, undone by something as simple as this.

Sans noses in closer to her, searching. Her heart pounds as she feels the warmth of his breath this close, his teeth parting. She responds in kind, letting her mouth slip open. Sans surprises her by being the first to touch the wet of his tongue to her own. For all his earlier hesitance, he’s forward about it, phalanges tightening their grip on her arm. He leans in closer, tilting his head up and pushing his body towards her. He uses his other hand to keep balance on the couch, supporting the position as he delves into her mouth, warm and slick.

It’s all she can do to meet him, caught off-guard as she is. To be frank, she hadn’t even known he could kiss her deeply like this. He’s a skeleton after all, only bone and magic at his joints keeping him together. But his tongue slips into her mouth, warm and real. Her soul pulses hot as he moves into her space, practically spilling into her lap.

Toriel adjusts the way they’re sitting till her back is against the arm of the couch and Sans is straddling her. Her hands move into place, one on his shoulder and one at the back of his skull. Sans reacts to his new position by bringing up his own hands to cradle her face in between them, kissing her even deeper.

He tastes sharp at first, like a hit of ginger, but it mellows out into something almost sweet as an aftertaste. Their tongues make slick noises, tangling together. It’s obvious he’s inexperienced, sloppy and too quick, but it doesn’t matter much when he kisses her like he means to make a point. She can feel him hum through a moan, the slight vibration shaking her to her core, and it makes her struggle to hold back her own vocal reactions. Her face feels too hot, the sensations overloading her.

When Sans pulls back, it’s with a sigh of her name that has Toriel wanting to pull him back in again. In fact, she does as much, tugging him forward by his shirt till their mouths crash together once more. He yelps, but the sound is swallowed by her kiss, as is the following groan as she licks into him, deep and searching. Sans goes slack, boneless (hah) in her arms, just barely holding on. He lets her take the lead, happy to follow and take what she gives. Sans shivers when she finally releases him, sockets still half-shut.

She’s breathing harder than earlier, her whole body warm and flush under her fur. Sans strokes her arms where he’s holding onto her absently, watching her with hazy eyelights that struggle to refocus. The silence between them this time is far more comfortable than earlier and neither of them makes to change positions. As such, Toriel has an easy view of the faint red glow seeping through the dark fabric of Sans’ shorts. She thinks again of the tongue she never knew he had.

Sans clears his throat.

She snaps her gaze back up to his face, burning with embarrassment but, to her relief, it doesn’t seem like Sans has noticed her staring. He’s much more caught up in his own head, starting to fidget in her lap and training his eyes on her like looking away is synonymous with failure. There’s a part of her that longs to reassure him but she manages to hold it down.

“You, uh. Mentioned something about your bedroom earlier?” Sans rushes through the words, still focused intently on her, his calmness betrayed only by the ever-brightening blush on his face. “Think I might be interested in getting a closer look at it.”

This time, it’s a lot easier to lead him into the next room.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, when Sans calls Toriel ‘Tori’ for the first time in text, even though I _literally_ wrote those words my _goddamn self_ : [CLUTCHING AT MY HEART] **GOD.** _WHO ALLOWED THIS?_
> 
> Me, flashing back to the two of them holding hands underneath the stars, another scene which I literally put together with my own two hands: **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA A A AAAAA I LOVE THEM**


	3. slow dive [3]

She’s a little worried that changing rooms will kill the mood, but as she leads Sans down the hall towards her bedroom, there’s no slowing to the way her heart races. Sans, for his part, is still more relaxed than he’d been at the start as well, face no less pink that it had been on the couch. As they walk though, his focus shifts elsewhere. The short hallway has two doors before her room at the end of it. One is the bathroom. The other door is slightly ajar, leading into an empty guestroom.

As they pass by it, Sans’ eyelights come up and catch her gaze, questioning. She looks away before she’s pulled into an answer. If changing locations didn’t kill the mood, a conversation about why she still lives alone certainly would. She’s not about to discuss it.

Toriel enters her room without turning on the lights, familiar with the layout of the place. She walks over towards each of the lamps on either side of her bed, switching those on instead. It casts the room in a low glow, warm, golden light blanketing over everything. It’s soft and inviting.

When Sans enters, he closes the door behind him with his foot, then stands there by the door looking awkward. Toriel can tell that he misses his coat from the way his hands immediately shy towards his pockets, only to realise he’s just wearing his sweater. The slightly startled expression on his face makes her quirk a smile and she holds a paw up to her mouth to hide it. Instead, she clears her throat and takes a seat down at the edge of her bed, feeling comforted by the usual way it sinks under her weight, sheets soft and cool to her touch. Without looking to see if Sans is watching, she moves her hands over the bottom edge of her simple, golden blouse, considering. A moment later, she pulls the top off over her head.

She certainly didn’t plan to have company tonight, so she’s not wearing anything special. Somehow, that alone makes the sharp inhalation from her side immensely gratifying. It’s a plain, black bra, with a satiny fabric that shines in the lamplight. (If she’d had the time to prepare, she would’ve chosen lace.) This time, she doesn’t hide the smile on her face as she turns to him. “Will you be joining me?”

Sans is staring at her, a little lost, a little entranced. If she’s being honest, it’s an endearing look on him. “Hh? Uh. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

At that, he scrambles to pull his sweater off, tugging at it with haste and yanking it over his skull. There’s no finesse to it, just a desperate rush to join her in her state of undress. Amused, Toriel turns away from him and tucks her thumbs under the elastic waist of her long, black skirt, pushing it past her thighs. She lets it crumple to the floor, finding an odd sort of satisfaction in the way the fabric falls and gathers on the floor by her bed.

When the mattress gives, she looks back to see Sans climbing onto it, shorts still on and studiously avoiding her gaze. It’s the first time she’s seen him so bare and it quietens her. She wonders if it’s magic that makes him seem so broad when he’s clothed. He’s still big-boned, his naked skeleton far thicker than another, fleshier monster’s might be under an x-ray, but he’s a skeleton either way. He’s small like this.

“So…” Sans finally meets her gaze. “You come here often?”

She snorts, climbing properly up onto the bed and settling in front of him. She plays along. “Goodness, no. It’s my first time.”

“Newbie, huh? Guess I’ll have to show you the ropes.”

She gives him a sly smile. “Ropes already? You don’t think we ought to start with fuzzy handcuffs and work our way up?”

As expected, Sans goes bright red. “I, uh—I didn’t mean—”

Toriel can’t help it, she laughs. She can’t hold it back, even though a part of her is worried that Sans will take offence. Luckily, it seems to soothe Sans instead of making him even more wound up. His shoulders drop a little and he tilts his head, laughing lightly along with her.

When they’ve both had their fill and are just grinning at each other, she speaks up again. “Is it yours?”

“Hm?”

“Your first,” she clarifies, keeping her tone light and un-accusing. “Based on prior conversation, I didn’t think it was but… if I’m incorrect, please tell me so.”

When Sans doesn’t immediately respond, still taking her words in, she continues, trying to ignore the way her heart pounds anxiously. “It does not change anything. I would like to do this with you regardless, but I would also like to be clear about where we stand. I would not want to give you a lackluster first performance.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sans blurts, leaning forward on his hands all at once, their faces almost touching. After a second, he colours, pulling back and looking away. His certainty is flattering and Toriel feels her own face grow hot once more. “But, uh. No, it’s not my first. I mean, I still don’t really have much in the way of experience, so I can’t promise I’ll be any—uh. Well, _anyways_ , the point is, I’ve f—h-had sex before. A couple times.”

She feels as if any response she gives to that might be too much for him. The thought is backed up by the way Sans jumps in place as her hand gently touches the side of his face, turning him to face her. Toriel leans in and presses a kiss to his teeth, slow and ardent. When she pulls back, Sans’ sockets are half-lidded.

“Thank you,” she says, simple.

“Yeah,” Sans breathes.

She presses close to kiss him again, mouth half-open and breath hot against the already heated bone beneath her. She spreads her legs on either side of his femurs, staying on her knees as she straddles him. Sans hands immediately come up to hold onto her and then freeze mid-air, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to touch. Toriel frees a hand to hold onto one of his, guiding it to her waist. Reassured, his grip on her is firm, phalanges sinking into the soft of her fur.

Sans keeps one hand on her waist where she put it, but the other goes low to her hip, his thumb hooking absently into her panties. Toriel deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth. Sans moans and she swallows the noise greedily, sliding her hands to his ribs. She rubs the pad of her thumb against his clavicle, rough, and Sans shivers under her touch. With the other, she carefully drags her blunt nails down his ribs and is pleased by the way Sans arches into her at it.

It’s been long enough that even just this is plenty to have her growing wet. Her soul pulses in time with her heart, the two harmonious in their beats. She thinks again to the glow she’d spotted earlier in between Sans’ legs and groans breathlessly.

Pulling away leaves both of them panting. She’s a little curious—she’d been under the impression skeletons didn’t need to breathe in the first place—but now’s not the time to ask. (There’s other anatomical bits that take precedence, anyway.) Sans’ ribcage rises and falls rapidly, his phalanges twitching as he grips tighter onto her. Toriel lets one large hand drift down to his spine, wrapping around it and stroking firmly. Sans bucks up into her, involuntary.

“Fuck, _ah—_ ”

Sans’ pelvis is heated with magic. That warmth against her wet folds has her mouth go dry at the sensation. Her panties aren’t exactly soaked through, not yet, but it’s a near thing.

She wants him.

“Shh, here, let me just…” She scoots back and Sans makes to follow. She’s about to tell him to stay there till she rethinks it, wondering if maybe… She continues backing up, her body brushing up against the headboard. Sans continues forward till he’s crowded over her. She looks up at him. It’s nicer than she expected to have him above her like this.

In this position, it’s especially easy to see the glow in his shorts, brighter now than it ever was before. Sans settles just above her lap, on his knees. His palms rest on the headboard on either side of her head, boxing her in. When he leans forward a little more, their foreheads knock together and she looks up at him, startled from her staring. Sans takes the opportunity to capture her mouth in another kiss, the taste of him heady on her tongue.

As they continue to kiss, licking deeply into one another, Toriel lets her hands wander up to his hips. She rubs her thumbs over the crests of his pelvis, relishing the way Sans’ hips snap fractionally forward at the touch. She slides her fingers back towards his sacrum, running her fingers over the clothed section of bone, pausing over the holes she feels beneath the fabric. At Sans’ hitching breath, she grows bolder, sliding her fingers down the back of his shorts and feeling the bone there directly against the pads of her paws.

Sans’ bones are coarse to the touch. It’s not like the cracks and dents in his ribs, borne of the hardships of the Underground. There is a natural roughness to them that Toriel is surprised to find she enjoys the feeling of. There are smooth panes as well, but her fascination lies with the jagged edges on him and she rubs against the panes of his bones over and over.

“S-shit…” Sans gasps, breaking the kiss to throw his head back.

Toriel uses the opportunity to trail her affection down his exposed neck, peppering open-mouthed kisses to it and listening to Sans groan. His femurs shake on either side of her thighs and the sight of him, open and trembling, has her throbbing. She runs her tongue into the space between Sans’ vertebrae and he _keens_.

She tugs off his shorts and pushes him onto his back in one smooth motion, both of them landing with a soft thump on the mattress.

Sans is picturesque beneath her, flushed and panting. His chest heaves and his body glows red with his magic, his joints alight. His eyelights are hazy and unfocused, staring up at her with hunger. It twists something unmentionable in her soul so she redirects her gaze further down. She frowns, not knowing what to make of his pelvis.

There’s a concentration of bright red magic in the hollow of his bones, occupying the entirety of his inlet. It flickers and shines like light, but flows like liquid. She hasn’t touched it but gets the impression her fingers would come away wet if she did. It’s lovely to look at but she’s momentarily at a loss for what to do with it.

Perhaps she stares too long, because Sans stiffens, anxious stutter slipping into his speech. “S-sorry. I didn’t—I couldn’t focus, so—I can fix it, just give me a minute—”

Toriel dips a finger into the pool of his magic.

Sans yelps.

“Is it sensitive?” She asks, whisper soft.

Cautiously, Sans nods, sweat beading on his forehead. Toriel smiles at him, the tips of her fangs poking out in her grin. She slides the same finger through his magic again, this time focusing on how heated it feels. Not uncomfortably so, but noticeable enough to stand out. When she pulls her finger back, it does indeed come away wet, matting down the tiny hairs on her fingertips. All the while, Sans squirms beneath her, sockets squeezing shut.

“Does it feel good?” Sans has his jaw clenched shut and, for a moment, Toriel worries she’s hurt him. “Sans?”

“Nn, yeah… it’s. It’s good,” he manages to say, voice low and wanting. The sound of it makes her heart pound and sends a twin pulse further south. With renewed vigor, she slips another finger into the slick of Sans’ magic, rhythmically swirling her two digits around in it. There’s very little resistance to it until she tries to push. That’s when she feels it hold. Interesting.

“Hhnn, god,” Sans pants, writhing against the sheets.

The sight of him like that, body begging with words he doesn’t have, is beyond alluring. Toriel lets her free hand wander down and push the bottom of her panties to the side, slipping her fingers in. The heat of her body is welcoming and familiar, slick coating her fingers as she rubs along the whole length of her slit twice to get her clit properly wet. As she does so, she also runs a third finger into Sans’ magic. The litany of curses that follow makes her grin.

It’s easier when she’s got his whole pelvis to work with. If he’d had a pussy like hers, her fingers would have been far too big to fit three into him so quickly. It’s like a shortcut and Toriel takes full advantage of it, letting her fingers swirls round and round in the well of his magic while Sans starts to babble incoherently beneath her. She tries to time it to the way she strokes herself, fingers dexterous as she slips and slides past her clit in the way she likes; teasing pressure that builds to a satisfying climax.

She can feel herself start to tense, heat building in her body and in her cheeks, blood rushing to warm her all over. It’s a good feeling when she’s alone—it’s even better when she has Sans trying desperately to keep his eyes on her, eyelights flickering in and out. She wants, with sudden ferocity, to praise him for how well he’s doing, but it sticks in her throat when she tries to speak, old memories surfacing and holding her back.

Instead, she runs Sans a little harder, pushing against his magic with all three of her fingers inside him.

The reaction is explosive. “ _FUCK!_ Tor— _ihn!_ ”

Her fingers slip hard against her clit, jolting her at the hoarse scream that peals from him. Her throat constricts, body thrumming urgent with the need in his voice. “Sans—”

“God, Tori, _please_ ,” Sans begs, undoing her without even knowing; her name in his mouth like this too much. “Again— _nnh_.”  

She can’t resist; not with the way he longs for her, open and unguarded. She pushes her finger into him again and Sans’ voice breaks on a sob. Her clit throbs, neglected, and she returns her attention to it, closer than before. She pumps her fingers through Sans’ magic, against the resistance in him, hard and fast. His magic flickers, burning bright, hot and slick and wet. Sans shakes beneath her, twisting and turning in the sheets. Her own body is ready for the finale, tingling with the need for release.

Toriel slips a fourth finger into Sans’ magic and the skeleton chokes on a moan, eyelights guttering out as his magic flashes starburst bright and his body arcs upwards into her. Toriel bites her lip and rubs quick circles against her clit, body going electric taut from release as she comes. Still, she’s the first to recover, slumping as every muscle seems to uncoil and give.

Shakily, she runs a wet finger along the side of Sans’ jaw. “Sans?”

When the other monster doesn’t respond, she leans in to kiss him and then follow it with a careful shake. “Sans, are you alright?”

“Mrmm, m’fine,” comes the response, rough and exhausted. Sans lolls his head forward, clearily opening his sockets. She wipes the concern off her face as best she can before he focuses. She doesn’t know if she quite manages because he grins at her. “Fuckin’ hell, Tori.”

It’s not even a proper comment but her ridiculous heart does flip-flops in her chest anyways. “I assume you’re satisfied?”

“I can barely move.”

“Then I’ve done my part.” She flicks his chest, smiling despite herself.

Sans smiles back, till something flickers behind his eyes. His grin falters. Suddenly, he’s pushing himself up onto his elbows, staring at her. “Wait—did you even—I didn’t touch you at all, I didn’t do anything, I’m—”

She presses a finger to his mouth, silencing him. “I took care of it.”

Toriel makes sure Sans is looking directly at her before she gestures downwards. His eyelights follow her direction, led down to her thoroughly soaked panties. They’re shoved to one side, leaving her pussy open and the wetness glistering on her fur clearly visible. Sans’ face goes red again, his eyelights shaking in their sockets before flicking back up to her face.

His shoulders slump. “Still… I should’ve…”

If they’d known each other ages ago, she would’ve been the type of person to reassure him. She’d rush to do it. She’d tell him he was worrying too much and that it wasn’t an issue at all. Even now, some part of her feels the urge to do the same, but years of experience remind her that it’s not worth it. It never is.

Still. This is Sans.

Some concessions are par for the course.

“You can make it up to me next time.” She allows herself to say and then tells herself that the way her heart squeezes at the mixture of relief and hope on Sans’ face is perfectly within the bounds of their friendship.

“Cool, it’s, uh,” he starts, then fumbles. “Uhhh… heh. Sorry, words hate me right now apparently.”

“I believe the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘it’s a date’.”

There’s a beat.

Sans stares at her with something unmentionably soft in his sockets. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Before the attention can start to make her squirm, Toriel disentangles herself from Sans and edges off the side of the bed. She pulls her skirt up off the ground and drags it up her legs, standing slowly. Sans watches her and she pretends that it doesn’t make her feel warm all over.

“You ought to clean up.”

“Oh, uh.” Sans scrambles off the bed as well. “Right, I need to get home ‘n all.”

“You can shower here,” Toriel says, not looking at him for fear it might give something away. Instead, she focuses on putting her blouse back on, putting her arms through the sleeves unhurriedly. “By the time you are done, I will have some refreshments ready. No sense in sending you off hungry.”

They ate at Grillby’s before they came here. The snacks are just an excuse to keep him here longer without having to explain it further than a simple meal. She knows that as well as Sans does. She can hear it in his voice when he speaks, soft and grateful.

“Sounds good, Tori.”

“Washroom’s the first door on your right.”

And before he can respond, she leaves the room, face burning and wondering if she’s started something she won’t ever be able to hide from.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan was to write rough banging but uhhh...
> 
> It didn't quite pan out LMAO
> 
> It's still in the books of course, but it might take a little to get there. Which means more chapters. Which means I'm gonna have to figure out where I'm going with this at some point LOL (I've got several vague plot points I wanna get to but the in-between is finicky.)
> 
> IN ANY CASE, Tori has Feels and doesn't know how to handle them and Sans is Trying Very Hard. I'm more in with the trends in the Japanese side of the Soriel fandom so idk how ectoparts are received on the western side but, I'm a fan so!! There will ghost dicks, ghost puss (because why would Sans stick to one if he could switch it up, amirite?) and conceivably ghost tentacles and alien things because why not. If that's not for you, please skip those chapters! There will definitely be other things as well (ie. sensitive bones, soul sex) since my interests are both varied and perverse ;3 Hopefully I'll have something for everyone~


	4. fast lane [1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans goes to work.

Sans wakes up at half past noon with his alarm blaring and his senses on high alert. He very nearly puts a bone attack through his phone before he becomes cognizant enough of his surroundings to relax.

He’s on the surface, he’s at home, he’s safe.

His soul is pounding, body coursing with adrenaline. (Or whatever the magical equivalent for non-fleshy monsters is anyway.)

The shrill alarm is possibly a bad idea, but Papyrus had been tired of spending a good hour trying to wake him up every morning so Sans had assured him he’d handle it on his own. His brother had been skeptical, especially when the first few quiet alarms had simply been silenced over and over, but Sans had corrected that. The loud, angry tone of his new alarm always shoots him straight into overdrive. It’s hell on his wound-up soul, but he’ll get over it with time. Probably. Besides, it’s worth it to take the stress off of Papyrus.

Sans yawns and stretches, the magic between his joints crackling as he leans from side to side. He scratches at his ribs and peers blearily around for the clothes he’d discarded last night. He’d only worn them the day before so they’re definitely not repugnant enough to attract his brother’s ire if he puts them on again. Usually, it takes three days of the same outfit before Papyrus gives him A Look, and around a week before the clothes mysteriously disappear and Sans is forced to pick something else out. 

Sure enough, the t-shirt is on the ground next to his shorts and his socks. Sans drags himself over to the pile and bends down to pick the shirt up first. He gives it a sniff, just in case, but it’s all clear. The most he can smell is the faint grease of Grillby’s and the even fainter scent of baking. That’d be Tori, of course.

As soon as he thinks of her, Sans feels his face get hot.

In the privacy of his own room, he buries his skull in the shirt and screams a little into his hands, muffled by the fabric.

He’d slept with her. 

After a thousand circular arguments with himself that all boiled down to it being a bad idea, he’d gone ahead and done it anyway. Fucking fantastic. Worst still, he hadn’t even made a good impression. He’d waltzed in there all ‘hi, my sexual experience is mostly limited to giving head back in college’ and then just… let her do everything.

“Fucking hell…” he groans, squeezing his sockets shut tight.

Last night he’d cleaned up, grabbed a bite and then went home and pretty much crashed. He hadn’t exactly had time to really sit and think about what had happened yesterday. Tori had seemed fine afterwards, nothing different about her behaviour towards him at all, but he couldn’t help but feel like she must’ve been disappointed.

He’s saved from following that train of thought to the inevitable crash by the musical notes chiming from his cellphone. It’s the chorus to Under the Sea (The Little Mermaid had been one of the very first movies Frisk had chosen for Official Movie Night. Although, Sans had seen it in bits and pieces before on the beaten up VHSs that made it to the Underground, it was a lot more enjoyable with the kid by his side and while free from empathizing too hard with the lead’s urge to be up on the Surface) which tells him it’s Undyne. (‘Undyne the Sea’ he’d snickered to her once and the proceeded to dodge the fuck out of the punch she threw at him. She was fuming even worse after the miss but she should’ve known better than to think he’d stand there and take it.) He grabs the phone from the floor next to his mattress and holds it up to his skull.

“Mornin’ Chief,” he says.

“You’re _late_ ,” she seethes at him from the other end.

“I ain’t even scheduled till one.”

“This is a meeting with the _King_ , shortstack. You need to be here _early_.”

“If he needed me there early, he should’ve just said so. I’m a busy guy—I’ve got appointments to keep.”

Undyne snorts like she doesn’t believe him, which is fair game, “ _Listen_. I’m only calling you because if you’re not here in exactly ten minutes, the King will want someone to tell him where you are. You know as well as I do that that someone won’t be me.”

Sans sighs.

Papyrus is taking a rare breather. He’s still working, but he’s showing some new recruits the basic patrol routes; a far more straightforward task than his usual pedantic guarding of the King himself, second only to Undyne. A month ago, he would’ve refused to be anywhere that wasn’t Asgore’s side. To drag him away from there right now with a query from His Majesty would be as good as making sure Papyrus didn’t take another break for months. 

“I’ll be there. Give me like five minutes.”

“You have two,” she snaps, predictably obstinate.

It’s fine though, it’s not like he can’t just shortcut there immediately. He needs maybe a minute to get his clothes sorted and a couple seconds extra to splash some water on his face to look a little less grungy. He’d been hoping to grab a bite before heading downtown but, eh. Maybe he’d grab something from a street vendor after the meeting.

He gets ready in a flash and wipes down his face with cool water and a face towel Papyrus has left in the ring by the sink. He gives himself a final look-over in the mirror, makes sure nothing about his face screams ‘hey, what’s up, I slept with your ex’ for his meeting with the King, and then blinks into the void.

Undyne is waiting for him in the lobby of the King’s Hall when he arrives. He pops in around the corner, hands in his pockets and his gait casual. When they make eye contact, he gives her a little wave. She rolls her good eye.

“Come on,” she barks, immediately ushering him down the forked path further in.

“I’ve been here a hundred times before. You don’t need to take me there.”

“Standard procedure,” she says, except Sans knows that it isn’t. When his brother is here, he’s usually the one who will mark Sans present and then let him approach on his own terms. Undyne won’t meet his eyes which is fresh and new in an entirely terrible way. She’s always tense, but her overcautious behaviour is amped up more than the regular and Sans’ hackles raise in response. A quiet anxiousness blankets him and his bones jitter as they reach the large marble doors to the King’s office.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Undyne says and Sans isn’t sure whether the statement is meant to reassure him or an implicit threat.

He knocks on the doors.

“Enter,” booms the King from inside, the thick marble doing nothing to diminish the authority in that tone.

Sans follows orders.

He steps into the room and lets the doors close shut behind him. He keeps his back nearly right against it, though the idea of Undyne standing right outside only makes him want to move away. Better her than the King.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, fist pressed tight to the middle of his sternum and eyes downcast.

“No need for formalities, Sans. It is just us.”

Sans doesn’t reply, but drops his hand and raises his head anyways. Asgore isn’t looking at him, busy going through papers at his large, oak, desk, flicking his quill over each one as he reads and writes. The room is bathed in artificial light from the grand chandelier sparkling above them. The floor to ceiling windows behind the King are curtained, like they always are.

Sans remembers Undyne and Papyrus arguing that the windows needed to be removed all together, too great of a security hazard, but Asgore had outright refused. Not that he ever used them.  But maybe there was power to that image, having windows that he had no need for. A vulnerability he wasn’t scared of anyone trying to exploit.

“You asked to see me, Sire?”

“Yes,” Asgore responds, still not looking up from his work. Sans shifts awkwardly in place as the King continues to scribble. His mane is pulled back into a tasteful half ponytail behind his head, keeping his hair from falling into his vision as he works. It keeps him haloed in the dark of it, picturesque in the contrast between his pale fur. Asgore doesn’t wear his crown any more but he doesn’t need to, regal without it. Especially when the image of him, crowned and formidable, has been scorched into the minds of every monster alive during his reign regardless.

It’s only when Sans is starting to sweat from anxiousness that Asgore sighs and puts his quill down at last. Sans immediately straightens, watching as the King steeples his fingers and gives him a long, hard look. Asgore puts his hands down. “How are you feeling, Sans?”

“Never been better.” He’s always had a gift for lying with a straight-face.

“That’s good,” Asgore says, still staring directly at him. “You only have a few more days of leave remaining, correct?”

When Sans nods, Asgore straightens, a thoughtful expression on his face. He leans back in his large, leather chair, the sound of it creaking under his weight loud in the solemn quiet of the room. “I’m afraid we won’t have time to ease you back into things.”

Sans doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move.

“Rehabilitation efforts must take priority, you understand. If we are to be able to integrate fully to life on the Surface, all stops must be pulled. As it is, we’ve already lost too much time. The next progress meeting on the naturalization of Monster society with the humans is only in a few short weeks. We are going to have to play catch-up with a great number of tasks. It will be arduous work.”

Still Asgore continues, heedless of the way Sans has frozen wordless in front of him, “I was loathe to allow your leave in the first place, but with your constitution it would’ve been reckless to ask you to persist. Now that you’ve had time to recover, I am confident that we’ll be able to pick up speed with rehabilitation. The people are eager to start their new lives after all.”

This time, he pauses, as if waiting for some sort of confirmation. Sans manage to work past the tightness in his soul enough to speak, “Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”

The King frowns. “Call me Asgore, Sans. Surely we are familiar enough for that in private. Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, Si—Asgore,” Sans corrects, gathering himself. “Sorry. I’m just not used to being awake this early.”

“It is half past one?”

“Yeah.”

Asgore blinks at him before he starts to chuckle, slow and rumbling. “Well, you will have the weekend to get yourself sorted. Starting Monday, you will need to be here bright and early. Around the time Lieutenant Papyrus comes in as a matter of fact.”

Sans thinks about how little his brother sleeps and just barely avoids cringing. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent.” Asgore claps his hands together and the crystals dangling from the chandelier shake from the booming sound it makes. “That will be all for today, Sans. Thank you for dropping by.”

Sans places his fist over his sternum again and ducks his head before turning around. In his desperation to get the door open, he almost misses it when the King calls out his name again. Almost, save that there is no denying the King. His voice alone is enough to stop rebellions in their tracks.

He turns, looking over his shoulder.

The King smiles at him, his canines glinting in the bright lights. “Please give Toriel my regards when next you see her. It has been a while since my wife last graced these halls. Perhaps a reminder would serve her well.”

His face feels like it’s burning. He hopes it’s not. “Uh, yeah, that’s—yeah, no problem.”

Asgore continues to smile before turning his attention back to his papers, effectively dismissing him. Sans yanks open the doors and rushes out of the room. Undyne gives him a look as he shuts the doors behind him and leans heavily against them, trying to ground himself in the panicking spiral of his thoughts.

As if the rehabilitation wasn’t enough—why mention _that_ to him? Did he know? No, he couldn’t. But in any case, Asgore had the whole Royal Guard at his beck and call, any one of them could’ve reached out to Tori on Asgore’s behalf, so why _Sans_? Tori would probably turn the Guards away at the door but—or maybe _that_ was why he’d chosen Sans, since he knew they were friends and she wouldn’t cast him out?

Or… maybe there’s nothing untoward about it at all? It could just be that he’s looking too closely at a casual greeting from Asgore, no hidden meanings to his words. And yet… 

Sans thinks of the King, and of cold steel, and of bright, red, bursts of magic followed by a piercing cry swallowed away too soon.

“Done?” Undyne asks.

He leans up off the door, hiding his trembling hands in his pockets. He plasters a grin on his face, sockets hooded. His voice doesn’t shake when he answers. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's plot now. B)
> 
> I've got more of an idea of where this is going, plus I've decided to do three chapter POV switches between Sans and Tori, so I'm newly excited to work on this some more. :3 Not much Tori this chapter but I've Got Plans for the next one so hopefully it all pans out~


End file.
